The play is Life; and this round earth,
    The narrow stage whereon
    We act before an audience
    Of actors dead and gone.

    There is a figure in the wings
    That never goes away,
    And though I cannot see his face,
    I shudder while I play.

    His shadow looms behind me here,
    Or capers at my side;
    And when I mouth my lines in dread,
    Those scornful lips deride.

    Sometimes a hooting laugh breaks out,
    And startles me alone;
    While all my fellows, wondering
    At my stage-fright, play on.

    I fear that when my Exit comes,
    I shall encounter there,
    Stronger than fate, or time, or love,
    And sterner than despair,

    The Final Critic of the craft,
    As stage tradition tells;
    And yet--perhaps 'twill only be
    The jester with his bells.

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